Things you'll never say
by Congo Shabba
Summary: Or admit. Tseng reflects on his relationship with Reno, and on the men they've both become. A series of somewhat connected drabbles, and mildly descriptive slash.


**Things you'll never say (or admit)**

He doesn't recognize you anymore. He tries to, so much, you can tell, but he just can't anymore.

You're still you, you want to shout. Sure, your hair is a bit longer than it used be, and you rarely tie it these days. Your shirts are crisper, your office is bigger. And maybe, your shoulders are a bit broader. But underneath it all, you're still you. (_Even with the new wrinkles_.)

He should see this, you tell yourself. But he doesn't. (_And maybe he's right not to._)

...there are times when you don't know who you are either. You've never told him. But sometimes, his mouth curls, and he looks away.

* * *

You're still the same man whom he fell in love with, nothing's changed... or has it?

It's what you like to believe. But when you want to tell him how much you (_still) _care about him, the words die on your tongue. He shakes his head, a small smile on the corner of his lips, fleeting. You brush it off, always, blame tedious work or intense training. You hold him closer, hope that it makes up for your silence. (_It doesn't.)_

He says the words. (_He always does_.)

He doesn't wait for an answer. (_He never did._)

* * *

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can pretend nothing changed. (_It should hurt you_.)

But he knows he's fooling himself. (_You know it too._) Even your voice has changed, he says.

But he can fool everybody, just as much, if not even more, than you can. You've always known it. He plays them, plays everyone. He can even play you these days. Because you let him, because you want him to, and mostly because you _need_ him to.

And it's funny how you like to think you're unreadable. But with him, you're not. You'd gotten used to it, once. (…_in another lifetime_.)

Now it makes it all so much harder.

* * *

Veld's been gone for what seems like a century.

You're the only one in charge now. It scares you, sometimes. (_It shouldn't_). You're a Turk, for crying out loud. But you feel like you have the weight of the entire world upon you. And frankly, you think it's just too much for a single man. (_But you'll never say it_.)

There are days when you'd quit. But you don't. For some reason, you feel responsible. It's strange. Like everyone depends on you. Like you can hold everything together by yourself. Like you can fix every single damn thing.

You need to believe it. You feel like you're slipping away. You tell yourself work is the only thing that's keeping you sane. But it's not. (_He is.)_

* * *

And you're never late to work now. (_Never_.)

There were times when you'd let him convince you otherwise. Your mouth curls a bit as you remember. Your memories are clouded but you can hear laughter, see him running naked in your flat, feel his skin against yours, the rug against your back. These were times when you didn't need to be perfect, but not anymore. You miss those days. Sometimes. (_Always._)

Sometimes, lying in bed with you, he tells you he misses your laugh. He grins, for your sake. But you can tell it doesn't reach his eyes. He drops it, lets you blame sleepiness. You never see it, you don't allow yourself to, because it hurts. He snuggles closer instead and, like this, you feel it's not so bad, after all.

(_You miss laughing.)_

* * *

You've fought countless times, over petty things most of the time. Even in the beginning, he was one of the few people who could get under your skin. You couldn't always control your temper around him. It always led to fighting... until you found a (_much_) better way to settle your issues. With him, it was never boring, always passionate.

You never fight anymore, not as lovers. (_You miss the making up._) As Turks, you suspend him often. You will never say it, but something screams inside you every time you see on a stretcher. His eyes try to speak to you, tell you he knows, but you never can bring yourself to admit it.

* * *

You feel overly protective of him. You know it's ridiculous. He's your best Turk, dammit. He could take a dozen men out by himself. He's wild, but expertly trained. You should know, since _you _made damn sure of it. What'll save him now is his gun, not his pen. But you can't help it. You just have to. You wouldn't bear this without him.

You give often paperwork duties and rookie investigations. You try to tell yourself it's because the last mission he was on cocked-up because of him, but it's not. (_You know he knows.)_

You know it pisses him off. But he never says it. He doesn't need to. Cold beds usually speak for themselves.

And you can't protect him forever. (_He doesn't _even_ need protection._) But, someday, he might not make it. And it's eating you inside. You should tell him this, but you can't just bring yourself to look him in the eyes anymore.

You used to love his eyes. But it's just plain torture now.

* * *

He's changed, too.

He's not the kid you first met so long ago. He's not the punk he used to be. You smile when you think about him, sometimes more than when you're actually with him. Truth is, thinking about who he was before makes you want your old self back even more, even if you do insist that nothing's changed. (_You know you're contradicting yourself again_.)

But you like who he has become. (_You_ _like him _very_ much_.)

You just miss the wild afternoons, the sleepless nights and the early "workouts" so much. You miss holding his hand, brushing his hair out of his eyes, kissing him in the cinema, making out during boring stakeouts. There are just too many things you've forbidden yourself to do anymore. You miss the man who wasn't afraid to love him freely, without restraint, without worry. You miss just _being_ with him.

You wouldn't trade him for the kid you knew for all the mako in the world, no. You'd just like to be the man who met him back then again.

(_Sometimes, you see it in his eyes, he would too_.)

* * *

Your hands on his skin, your tongue in his mouth, you inside him are the only things that can warm your blood now. It's strange that you rarely seek him out, then, if he's the only thing that can bring you back to life. (_But you're scared.)_ Emotions do tend to get in the way of a job well-done.

He'll never know how to tie his tie, when to shut his mouth or why he should stop smoking, but that's what he has you for.

(_...and it used to be__ for so much more.)_

* * *

You know he couldn't count how many times he woke up to a cold bed, or how many times he went to bed alone. You always stay late to work. You take everything on you. You think it makes up for not being on the field liked you used to anymore. (_You do miss the fighting_.) But it doesn't. And he never brings it up.

And when you come back home, often you just don't have the heart to go back to your past, and to the life you wish you still had. Sometimes you sleep on the couch, still in your suit, or don't sleep at all and spend the night on the balcony. You find the city strangely calming. (_Because it's so chaotic.)_

You will never say this, not even on pain of death, but you always will him in your mind to come join you. Half the time he does, sometimes, he doesn't, and on rare occasions, he doesn't even come home. You know it's his way to blow off steam now. (_You liked his old way better.)_

* * *

It's one of _these_ nights tonight.

You've buried him under piles and piles of files and forms again. You sigh. It doesn't anger you like it used to, but you still feel cold, and it's not the wind, nor the winter. This late, you're too tired to bother lying to yourself. (_You will fall asleep imagining him with other men._)

It's always after these nights you become alive once again. These are the only times you can prove to him how much he means to you. He shouldn't stay with you. Not with everything you put him through. But he does, never leaves, never will, and you feel like crying. (_If you still could.)_

* * *

In the morning, when he'll have just come back, you'll pin him to the door. He won't even have the time to take off his shoes. You'll kiss him, and it won't be gentle. He'll let you do anything and everything you feel like. Maybe he doesn't have the energy to pull away from you, maybe he just doesn't want to.

He'll hold you like it were the last time he would ever get to do so. It's always the same.

He'll sigh in your mouth, bite your neck, bruise your skin. His nails will dig in your shoulders, his legs, force you closer. He'll want you to be rough with him, but you won't. He'll curse, nip your ear, pinch your nipple until you cry out, bite your tongue to draw out blood.

He'll want you to hurt him, to make him feel loved again through the pain. You know it's killing him little by little. That's why you'll take him slowly, gently, like you've almost never been with him. He'll curse, again and again. He'll cry when you'll take him, sob when he'll come. His skin will stay unmarred. Against his, your body will tremble, all bloodied and bruised. He'll have marked you, and you'll ache everywhere, but you won't care. (_You're his, always been, always will be_.)

It's the only way you know how to say "I love you" anymore.

(_And you're crossing your fingers it's enough._)


End file.
